Fable: Armageddon
by Princep
Summary: <html><head></head>Sixty years have passed since the events of Fable III. The Hero of Brightwall's only child and son, George, has liberated Albion from the tyrannical grasp of Reaver and has been rightfully crowned king. However, amidst the ensuing era of prosperity, an apocalyptic threat as old as time itself is about to return with a fiery hunger for vengeance.</html>
1. Prelude & Chapter 1

_Hello, everybody! Welcome to my first true fanfic! Firstly, I would like to thank you ahead of time for reading this first chapter of my story. I hope it's enjoyable to everyone! Please review! I adore comments and constructive criticisms of all shapes and sizes!_

_Note that the events of **Fable: Edge of the World**and **Fable: The Journey** ARE considered to be canon in this storyline._

_**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing but my original characters. All elements of the universe derived from the games/books belong to their respectful creators and owners. This was written purely for entertainment purposes. Thank you!_

**Prelude**

_History has an addiction to repetition. Evil, an ever-present entity of varying form and objective, never rests. Evil is history's drug of choice. With every passing moment, hour, day, and week…another form of malevolence rises to be defeated. It is the actions of these vices that drive the progression of the good._

_Unless, of course, there comes a force of wickedness that rejects defeat entirely. These foul rarities aim only for apocalyptic destruction. Their goals and ambitions are shrouded by carnage, chaos, and utter demolition. _

_In such exceptional cases, only a Hero may stand in their way._

_Reaver, a certain form of said wickedness, usurped the throne of Albion just ten years after the downfall of the Crawler. _

_To combat the dark conquest of the Void-born Darkness, the Hero of Brightwall led a full-scale invasion of the Empire of Samarkand; an invasion which sadly failed and resulted in the King's capture by Samarkand's Empress._

_In His Majesty's absence, Reaver seduced the Hero's beloved Queen Laylah into a friendship which clouded her reason and judgment. Exiling her only friends and allies, Laylah isolated herself in the oceans of Reaver's influence. The industrial master had achieved his goal. He overthrew the Queen and assumed the title of Albion's reigning monarch._

_Shortly after, Laylah discovered that her husband had impregnated her with a child before departing for the shores of Samarkand. The resulting baby boy, the rightful Crown Prince of Albion, was named George. _

_Prince George was raised amongst the spiteful commoners of Albion whom aimed to destroy King Reaver by any means possible. Hidden from the grasp of the government's Royal Army, George grew under the militant influence of Page and her loyalist rebel followers. Like his father, the boy was a Hero. As such, the Crown Prince became an adept warrior competent in the arts of strength, skill, and the use of the Will. The people rallied behind his charm and hoped to follow him into a second revolution against the tyrant usurper of Albion's throne._

_Finally, after forty years, chaos erupted with the invasion of Albion by the Corruptor. The rise of Gabriel and the destruction of the Spire provided an unprecedented opportunity for the Crown Prince and his rebel allies: a chance to take back the throne. _

_With widespread disorder ensuing after the Corruptor's defeat, Prince George launched a full-scale revolution against the false King Reaver. History, of course, had repeated itself. The revolutionaries pushed directly into the heart of Bowerstone. For six days, they combatted against Reaver's well-fortified Royal Army until the will of the enemy was shattered. Bowerstone Castle was surrendered to the rebels, and Reaver was incarcerated for treason at Ravenscar Keep. _

_At forty years of age, George was rightfully crowned King of Albion. Laylah, having regained a somewhat popular image during the years leading up to the revolution, was respectfully made the Dowager Queen. _

_Over the ensuing decade, progression in Albion was restored under the benevolent and absolute hand of King George. Two of the king's closest economic advisors, the liberal Thomas Alexander and the conservative Isaac Drake, were made the principle heads of industry. The simultaneous formation of Alexander and Drake Industries effectively created a duopoly whose influence stretched across entire Kingdom of Albion. Oil drilling in Aurora resumed, and the abandoned forests of Witchwood were excavated for resources._

_The fate of the Hero of Brightwall and the Empire of Samarkand remain wholly unknown. The Hero's devout supporters – including the charismatic Benjamin Finn, the cultured Kalin, and the wise and powerful Garth – also remained unaccounted for. Samarkand sunk into isolation from the rest of the world, leaving King George in the dark regarding the fate of his cherished father._

_Ten years have passed since the Second Revolution. King George, now aged fifty, continues to bring prosperity to Albion under his moral guidance. He seeks a royal bride to bear his successors. Hordes of women descend upon him in hopes of becoming his queen. _

_All is well in Albion. All are oblivious to the apocalypse ahead. _

**Chapter 1**

**Bowerstone Castle**

**Bowerstone, Kingdom of Albion**

King George of Albion was a handsome man of mixed ethnic descent. He maintained his Albionite father's general resemblance; pronounced features, a small pointed nose, and a pair of large brown eyes as deep as an ocean. But his mother, Laylah, a pure-blooded Auroran, gifted him with a naturally bronzed skin tone and a head of thick hair as black as night. He was an ethereal beauty – incomparable to any other man in Albion.

The king was entirely aware of his striking looks. He proudly complimented them with an attractively thin beard, a stylishly combed hairstyle, and an exquisite royal uniform that flaunted his military might with superb medals and golden epaulettes.

His Majesty was as arrogant as any regent was expected to be. He bragged of his reputation for bedding aristocratic women and paraded his political success and wealth he'd brought to the nation. But it couldn't be argued that he wasn't an effective king. Despite his perceived narcissism, King George's rule over Albion was purely benign in every aspect. His regime lacked the cruelty and sheer greed that had dominated the entire country during Reaver's time on the throne.

But no government is perfect. George's industrial and economic ambitions caused an oil shortage in Aurora. An energy crisis struck the corporate giants of Bowerstone. This was accompanied by a rapid global warming instigated by the huge overuse of fossil fuels in the past decade.

His Majesty was faced with an issue that could no longer be avoided. A meeting was arranged between King George, Thomas Alexander, and Isaac Drake. Three of the most powerful men in the nation were thrust into the castle's war room. Their next actions would change the world forever.

"The energy crisis has nearly reached its peak." Alexander stated, knocking his knuckles against the table. He was a middle-aged, self-made businessman whom still wore commoners' clothing despite his prestigious position. He gazed at the King of Albion through a pair of squinted, leathery eyes and pointed his weathered finger towards the central Auroran valleys on the map. "My experts state that we have less than a year's supply of oil left in Aurora. After that, it's over. We need an alternative energy source. The world simply doesn't have enough oil to sustain us."

"Nonsense!" boomed the hoarse voice of Isaac Drake. The thin, lanky old man ran his hands through his over-grown sideburns and flashed a yellowed smile towards his business rival. "You do not consider the prices of such an endeavor, Monsieur Alexander!" He turned to King George, whom sat quietly in his chair with intently listening ears. "Your Majesty, the sheer cost of experimenting on alternative fuel would shatter the economic stability of the whole kingdom!"

George shook his head with a sigh. "What other choice do we have, Drake?" he asked solemnly.

Isaac stood with pride, unveiling a series of scrolls encased in a chest his employees had brought to the chamber. A gentleman of aristocratic birth, Drake spoke with an acute accent and acted with highly proper mannerisms as he made his demonstration. "Observe the Auroran oil fields." he directed, presenting an intricate diagram of the oil drilling plantations in central Aurora. "What my lovably left-winged accomplice here says is true; we have only months of oil supply remaining under the hot desert surfaces of our western domains." He tapped his walking stick against the floor. "But have we considered drilling in other regions?"

"No," Alexander responded irritably. "Because there are no other regions in which to drill!"

"Allow him to speak, Mister Alexander." King George calmly grunted, focused upon Drake's imminent suggestions.

Thomas groaned and redirected his gaze to the King of Albion. "Your Majesty," he began, placing a hand over his chest as a gesture of respect and submissiveness to the monarch. "We have scanned every inch of the nation for supplementary oil supply! Fuel sources in the Mistpeak provinces have been dried up, and we couldn't find any evidence of fuel whatsoever in the Witchwood Isles. The Kingdom of Albion is a dead zone for oil drillers. We must-"

Drake whacked his walking stick against the edge of the map table, startling both Thomas and King George for a split second. "I am not suggesting that we drill within Albion's borders!" he thundered, inflicting a fiery glare upon Alexander. He swiftly unveiled an elaborate illustration of an unknown landmass's shores. Drake slipped another grin. "The Northern Wastes!"

"By Avo…" Alexander sighed, stuffing his face into his palms.

King George let out a slight chuckle. "The Northern Wastes?" he inquired. "You want to drill oil…in the Northern Wastes?"

"We haven't had contact with that godforsaken tundra in centuries!" Thomas added.

"Six centuries to be exact!" Isaac Drake excitedly corrected. "Several years after the collapse of the Heroes' Guild, a massive blizzard struck the Wastes. The storm was so mighty that all human life was wiped out of the region! The entire ocean surrounding the Wastes' shores was frozen solid! Albion's link with its northernmost territories was shattered!"

"And no man or woman has ever set foot upon the land since." the king added with rolling eyes. "Yes, we are aware. Two expeditions bound for the Wastes were sent under the reign of my father. Both were incapable of sailing through the thickness of the ice. It's physically impossible to reach the Wastes' shores. Quite frankly, the Wastes are a waste."

Drake let out an ear-curling cackle. "No, Your Majesty! Not anymore!" He pointed towards the map with his walking stick. "The recent temperature increases have caused the ices to recede northward! I've sent four privately funded expedition parties into the northern seas. Their discoveries were mind-blowing! The ices have thinned well enough for our steamships to break through! Furthermore, they've found concrete evidence of a massive oil pool underneath the mountains of the Foothills. If my employees estimated correctly, the pools are guaranteed to provide _at least _a full century of energy supply for the Kingdom of Albion."

"What evidence, Drake?" King George asked, leaning forward with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

"Seismic surveys were conducted with the use of heavy explosives on potential drilling sights." Isaac replied, unveiling yet another series of data-laden diagrams. They clarified several oil sources just beneath the Foothills. "The reflections of the shock waves granted undeniable proof that there is, in fact, huge natural oil reserves in the Northern Wastes – reserves which are perfectly accessible to the tools and assets of Drake Industries. But first, we would have to establish military control over the surrounding regions. All that I require is a governmentally-funded expedition by the Royal Albion Army to secure the coasts and southwestern ranges of the Northern Wastes. It will ensure the safekeeping of my workers. I will handle the rest."

"Your Majesty, this is a preposterous gamble!" Thomas argued. "We have no idea what forms of dangerous wildlife reside in the Wastes! The entire expedition could be annihilated in a matter of hours!"

"The only preposterous gamble, Monsieur Alexander," Drake hissed. "Is investing billions into the creation of an alternative energy source that may or may not even exist!" He turned once more to King George. "Your Majesty…I ask for a commitment of one million gold pieces into a small, well-armed, and well-prepared military expedition to the Northern Wastes. That is all. If you secure this oil field, you will eliminate every looming threat to Albion's status as the greatest industrialized power in the world."

"Your Majesty," Alexander begged. "Please, leave the Wastes as they are. They've been lost and isolated all this time for a reason. Drake's idiotic proposal is not a safe venture. I ask…no, I _beseech_ you…to invest in alternative energy instead. I promise you that I can make it happen. It will be successful. The people and the environment will thank you profusely."

Drake returned to his seat. "This choice, my king, will dictate the future of both our nation and our world. I pray you choose wisely."

King George stood with a stern expression of thought. Isaac Drake spoke the truth; the fate of his entire rule rested on this decision. In this moment, every other problem and issue within his life and his kingdom was nullified. Only this choice was relevant. His shining boots clomped against the floors as he approached the windows. He gazed out at the towering smokestacks of Bowerstone Industrial.

He would choose based on fact, not hope. Yes…he would choose correctly.

George turned to the two industrial tycoons with a clear decision made. "I will telegraph General Timmins to prepare a small force of his best men." he stated, nodding his head towards Drake. "They will disembark for the Northern Wastes by the week's end."

Thomas groaned again in complete disappointment and defeat.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Drake replied with a victorious smile. He flashed his putrid teeth towards Alexander. "The right choice has been made."

No…the wrong choice had been made. An ancient beast, long lost to the forgotten pages of history, was about to be reawakened.

* * *

><p><strong>Liberty Manor<strong>

**Millfields, Kingdom of Albion**

In the years following the Second Revolution, an elderly Page was finally convinced by her advisors to step down from her position as "the voice of the people." King George insisted on granting her a generous estate and title in Millfields to commend her service to the nation's wellbeing. Although she firmly rejected the assumption of a feudal ranking, the former rebel leader eventually accepted an old, abandoned, yet aesthetically appealing mansion on Bower Lake as her permanent residence. A significant tribute of wealth was relinquished to Page by His Majesty's Royal Treasury. Over a short period of time, she became accustomed to the lavish lifestyle of an aristocrat. In contrast to her decades in the Bowerstone Sewers, she now lived in considerable comfort as a member of Albion's bourgeoisie.

"Lady" Page, however, never lost sight of her libertarian ideologies. To display her continuous devotion to goodwill and the common people as a whole, she titled her residence "Liberty Manor" and made it a stronghold of nation-wide charity.

Page, having grown habituated to stylish gowns and powdered wigs, strode alongside the Dowager Queen Laylah on the cobblestone paths lining the waters of Bower Lake. They had both become old women – plagued by wrinkles and blemishes of age. But they maintained a sense of attractiveness and potency, even as they surpassed the mark of 80 years.

"Has His Majesty decided on how to solve the energy crisis?" Page inquired, her walking stick tapping against the brick road as they walked.

"My son has chosen to invest in an expedition for further oil sources." Laylah replied. Her Auroran accent had faded since her marriage to the Hero of Brightwall. She became purely Albionite in all but ethnic background.

"An expedition? To where?"

"The Northern Wastes, where the great Lord Isaac Duke claims to have found more fuel than one could imagine."

Page grimaced at the thought of the industrial kingpin. "He is a foul man, that Lord Duke." she growled. "A reincarnation of Reaver's cruelty that I spent a lifetime fighting to destroy. I was hoping for the king to invest in alternative energy so that-"

"An investment which would be insufferably uncertain in such dark times." The Dowager Queen interrupted. "My son is wise. He follows the ruling practices of his benevolent father."

"Yes, his father – Avo rest his soul. But one must consider our fate in the long-run. We will run out of oil one day. Then, what will our people do?"

Laylah grinned and looked to the skies through her small spectacles. "They will pray to Avo for a solution…and that solution will come."

With George's taking of the crown, the old churches of Avo and Skorm were officially reestablished by the government. The Church of Avo – the "Avist Church" – became the Kingdom of Albion's state-sponsored religious body. The modern Church of Avo held its roots in Albert the Luminous's Temple of Light in Oakfield. As a result, Oakfield became a sacred settlement to the nation's devout Avists. By George's coronation, it had evolved into a semi-industrialized city of agriculture. The populace welcomed the worship of the ancient god. Many notable Albionite figures, including Page and Laylah themselves, publically converted to Avism and the veneration of the Lord of Virtue, Avo.

Despite being an inveterate Avist, Page professed doubt in Avo's will to directly aid the people. As of recent eras, miracles seemed to be in short supply. If the Lord of Virtue did not send a solution now, why would he choose to do so in the future?

"Luckily, we'll be long dead by then." she jokingly remarked to the Dowager Queen.

The pair moved towards the main gates of Liberty Manor, which was guarded by two ferocious gargoyle statuettes. Page looked to her old friend with wandering eyes. "Do you ever dream of what happened to your husband? Ben? Even Kalin?"

Laylah leaned against her walking stick with a short gasp of air. "Every moment of every day." she desolately confirmed.

"I sometimes imagine what would happen if they were to return. Forgive me for my gruesomeness…but it has been many years. Perhaps hope is lost."

"They are alive." The Dowager Queen retorted without hesitation. She neither frowned nor smiled; she simply spoke as though it was fact. "Somewhere, somehow, they are alive. And we will be reunited one day soon. I can feel it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

**Mourningwood, Kingdom of Albion**

Over the course of the past several decades, the humid swamplands of Albion's Mourningwood became an increasingly perilous and inhospitable bayou. With the absence of military personnel at Mourningwood Fort, massive hordes of Hollow Men conquered the region without opposition. In mere months, the undead steamrolled through the eco warrior settlement at the edge of the marshes. What few survivors remained were forced to flee for refuge in Driftwood.

However, the newborn reign of King George paved way for a surge in countryside travel. As rates of travel increased, so too did the demand for safe passageways through Mourningwood. High ranking industrialists even dared to envision the creation of a Mourningwood Monorail beneath the murky swamp.

In response to numerous pleas of the populace, His Majesty dispatched the Royal Bowerstone Fortiores (a battalion of the 7th Royal Infantry Brigade) into the thick everglades of Mourningwood to reclaim the abandoned fort. The Fortiores were amongst the most lethal and well-trained subdivisions of the Albion Army, second only to the King's Elite Guards themselves. The force was led by the young and mysterious Lieutenant Colonel Rudolf Arceneaux.

Rudolf Arceneaux was a physically robust Albionite of aristocratic birth. He was the second son and fifth surviving child of Lord Frederick Arceneaux, a noble estate holder in Millfields. The well-to-do Arceneaux family was renowned for its devotion to Albion's military. They staunchly supported the Hero of Brightwall during the First Revolution against King Logan…and they did the same for George when he rebelled against Reaver the Usurper. The result of the Arceneauxs' unbreakable loyalty to the royal family gained them huge favor in the king's court.

Not surprisingly, Rudolf was amongst the recipients of such benefits. Although a dutiful attendant of His Majesty's Royal Military Academy in Bowerstone, the young soldier was granted significant special treatment from the beginning. At the ripe age of twenty-three, his noble blood entitled him to the officer's rank of Captain immediately upon graduation from the Academy. Over the course of the next seven years, Captain Arceneaux's acts of valor in service of his king and country garnered him a promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. He was placed in command of the Royal Bowerstone Fortiores, where he'd remained for the past six months. With his new promotion, the Lieutenant Colonel was marked the youngest commanding officer in the Albion Army.

Now aged thirty, Rudolf led his force of 600 men into the terrifying wetlands of Mourningwood. The woodlands were plagued by a persistent croaking of frogs. Freakish insects unleashed relentless assaults on the incoming soldiers. Swarms of mosquitos hovered over the waters, only to be caught in multifaceted spider webs that lined the rocks. Alligators silently peaked their heads over the mud surfaces in anticipation of unwary prey.

The soldiers were well-dressed in their decorative crimson uniforms and were armed to the teeth with a variety of steel firearms and blades. They paddled through the murky waters of the swamp upon log rafts they'd constructed earlier that morning. A collection of nearly 60 rafts quietly glided over the current.

Lieutenant Colonel Arceneaux headed the battalion from the foremost platform. He was a fetching gentleman whom wore his golden distinctions and epaulettes with a vigor not entirely present in the majority of military leaders. Rudolf took on a broad, muscular build during his years in basic training. His shape was well-maintained over the years. It complimented his sharp physical features and thick brown hair. His exquisite officer's uniform defined the bright color of eyes. But one could not overlook the gruesome scar that ran like a creek over the officer's right jaw line, with another just barely gashing across his eyebrow. How had he earned these grisly wounds? What had he seen?

In his right hand, the man held a loaded master flintlock pistol in readied position – almost as if he was posing for an official portrait. He received the weapon as a gift from his mother shortly after his promotion to his commanding rank. His left palm was rested on the hilt of his military-issue steel cutlass sword.

Arceneaux's steadfast subordinate, the blond-haired Major Horatio Baron, stood beside him with his musket at the ready. The Major rubbed his gaunt, sunburned cheek he scanned the vined canopy for potential danger. "Bit quiet…Don't you think, Rudie?" he murmured to the Lieutenant Colonel in his thick Mistpeak accent. He was far older than Rudolf (by nearly 16 years, in fact), but he still respected the man as his superior. The structure of the battalion under Arceneaux placed huge importance on brotherly comradeship. Therefore, it was not uncommon for the men to address their commander in such a casual manner.

"The sun's still shining." Rudolf replied gravely. Though considerably youthful, his voice contained an impassive energy. "The Hollow Men stay dormant until nightfall."

"Which means we've only got a few hours to reach the fort before they tear us apart." Baron chuckled.

The commander shook his head. "Not even." He turned to the collection of rafts sailing behind him. "Stay vigilant, men! We'll need every ounce of manpower we have come dusk!"

"Roger that, Lieutenant Colonel!" came the response of an anonymous soldier.

"Oi!" shouted one of the men amongst the central rafts. "Why ain't we singin' a tune!?"

His comment was followed by a series of laughs and low conversations before several soldiers began to recite "The Fall of Heroes" – a common folk song known throughout the Kingdom of Albion.

"_O there was a mighty Hero!_

_Johnny was his name!_

_The peasants killed his wife and boy!_

_But who was he to blame?"_

It didn't take long for the rest of the battalion to join them.

"_Run, run, Heroes!_

_Run for Avo's sake!_

_Nostro's Guild is bound to fall!_

_Your lives are all at stake!_

_Johnny swore reprisal!_

_He took up spell and blade!_

_He butchered tens of peasants_

_And ignited a crusade!_

_Run, run, Heroes!_

_Run for Avo's sake!_

_Nostro's Guild is bound to fall!_

_Your lives are all at stake!"_

"This song strikes my bloody heart with homesickness." Baron said to Rudolf as the men continued performing the lyrics. "Will you miss Millfields, Rudie?"

The Lieutenant Colonel dismissed the thought. "Arceneaux Manor is a dark and lonely place…even when it's full of people. The luxury distances you from reality. I'm happy to be released from the confines of that dungeon for a while."

"Alright, L.C.," commented the one-eyed Captain Sammy Snow with an eyebrow sarcastically raised. "So you'd rather be sweating balls-deep in a swamp than sip on fine wine in a Millfields mansion?" Captain Snow was a much beloved figure within the Fortiores' ranks. He'd served in the battalion for almost five years now. The twenty-nine year old officer sacrificed his left eye to a Balverine's claw for the life of a newly drafted private in Wraithmarsh. For that, he garnered the respect of his entire regiment. Snow, the loud mouthed and enigmatic entertainment of the battalion's commanding body, was as brave as soldiers came. He was the finest marksman in the Royal Army. As a hardened and loyal soldier, the Captain provided a massive boost of morale to Lieutenant Colonel Arceneaux's men.

"The emptiness of the aristocracy isn't an easy force to cope with, Sam." Rudolf responded. "Better than factory work, no doubt, but…not the paradise it is portrayed as being."

Widening his singular eye and placing a hand over his eye patch, Sammy let out a hysterical laugh. "Crickey, that's some odd logic!"

"What about you, Baron?" Rudolf inquired, turning his attention to the Major. "Your mind often drifting to the farm in Oakfield?"

Major Baron cleared his throat. "Aye. Yesterday was my granddaughter's fourth birthday. I'll write to her when we've settled the fort. I'm afraid I can only offer her the gift of words on parchment."

"Very poetic, Barry." Captain Snow chuckled as he lifted his cap to wipe the sweat from his thick red hair. "I'm sure she'll love it. It's always nice to get a letter back home!"

"_The peasants took up arms!_

_They cried for Johnny's head! _

_They circled 'round the Hero_

_And they shot the devil dead!_

_Run, run, Heroes!_

_Run for Avo's sake!_

_Nostro's Guild is bound to fall!_

_Your lives are all at stake!"_

At that very moment, Rudolf shifted his focus without a single move. He attentively listened to every detail of the noises surrounding him. Beyond the merry singing of his men, there was a faint buzz. The noise differed from the buzzing of nearby mosquitoes and dragonflies. It was aggressive. Energetic. Aroused.

Even with his lack of one eye, Captain Snow recognized the sudden change in the Lieutenant Colonel's mannerisms. "_**Stop!**_" he ordered the soldiers.

In a split second, the singing completely ceased. The men swiftly presented their rifles. The rowers at the sides of rafts immediately dropped their oars and scrambled for their firearms as well. Powerful waves of volley fire were readied at each flank.

"Can you hear that?" Rudolf whispered to Baron and Sammy, tightening his grasp on the handle of his pistol. The buzzing was becoming more present. Its volume had doubled, and it appeared to have physically multiplied by the hundreds.

"What in blazes is that?" Sammy murmured.

Major Baron turned back to the battalion. "Keep those rifles at the ready!" he ordered. "Do not fire without my order!"

"It's getting louder." Arceneaux calmly observed.

"And it's coming from both sides of the stream." Baron added.

Sammy exhaled a shaking breath. "Crickey, I ain't never heard nothin' like this before." he stated quietly. "And hell, I used to live in the bloody Bowerstone Sewers! This is ominous."

Rudolf quickly eyed both sides of the water. Several alligators were stalking the convoy of rafts as if expecting an outbreak of chaotic vulnerability. It nearly made him jump when he caught a sudden movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see a massive black insect, armed with colossal mandibles as sharp as blades, land upon a log lodged at the edge of the current. With a slight clicking signal, the creature leapt into flight – advancing towards the rafts with immeasurable speed.

A wide-eyed Arceneaux whirled his gaze to the ranks of the battalion. "_**GET DOWN!**_" he ordered at the top of his lungs. "_**BEETLES!**_"

"_**FIRE AT WILL!**_" the Major boomed.

Swarms of beetles – numbering well into the hundreds – descended upon the men like a cloak of death. The deafening roar of gunshots muffled out the soldiers' screams as the jaws of the insects tore through their uniforms and into their flesh. Blood rushed over the scene as various members of the battalion stumbled off of the rafts and into the water. As they splashed through the muck, the alligators engaged in a gory feast.

"By Avo's shit!" Sammy cried as the men tumbled over the logs. "Watch the raft! _The raft!_" With the handle of his rifle, he whacked one of the countless advancing insects into the water. "Holy hell!"

Rudolf suffered the fangs of many beetles. He tussled and turned as they rushed over him, grunting in pain the whole way. Having unloaded his pistol upon the savage monsters, he was forced to unsheathe his cutlass. The Lieutenant Colonel made a desperate attempt at hacking them apart with the blade, but he was largely unsuccessful; the raft was on the verge of flipping, and Arceneaux could scarcely keep his balance.

Major Baron, his face bloodied by several severe bites, turned to his superior with wide eyes. "Sir, we're about to-"

Their raft was overturned. As Rudolf tumbled into the water, his head collided with the kneecap another soldier. With the taste of metal strong in his mouth, the Lieutenant Colonel slipped into unconsciousness and sunk further into the swampy river's depths.

* * *

><p><strong>Ravenscar Keep<strong>

**Ravenscar Isle, Kingdom of Albion**

In reality, Elizabeth Nero was neither pretty nor plain. Long, mangled, dark red hair; pale skin stained with soot; a pair of almond-shaped green eyes; a thin, malnourished body; and a wardrobe of clothing that poorly mimicked the prosperous. Put bluntly, she was a dirtied peasant woman with great ambitions…but not any means to reach them. Perhaps, with proper time and care, she could be made beautiful. But that was out of the question at this stage in the game.

Elizabeth's faded shoes clicked against the cold stone floors of Ravenscar Keep's passages. Rats scurried over the foundations, their shadows flashing through what little sunlight was allowed inside. The soldiers of His Majesty's Elite Guard, clad in violet uniforms and shining cuirasses, carefully watched her through their masks as they patrolled the dungeon corridors. Miss Nero was a regular visitor for the most notorious convict of the penitentiary: Reaver himself.

The Hero of Skill was kept in seclusion from the other inmates. His wing, strictly reserved for high-priority enemies of the state (with former residents including General Solomon Turner), was under utmost maximum security. However, the former thief of Albion's throne lived in considerable comfort…despite his imprisonment in the Kingdom's most heartless "reformatory." Reaver was permitted access to fine silken robes, aristocratic suits, and luxurious meals one would expect to encounter in a castle. He was granted weekly newspapers and remained well-studied on the nation's most current events – particularly the events involving the royal family.

Nero hurriedly approached the circular chamber that contained Reaver's cell. The three soldiers guarding the entrance began to chuckle at her arrival. "Ah," growled the stone-faced officer in command of the trio. "The usurper's whore has returned to lick his shaft. How lovely!"

Elizabeth was not amused. Her expression was blank and unfazed by the vulgarities of the men. "Stand aside, Lieutenant Charleston." she snarled, slipping a gold piece into his palm. "You know the deal."

Charleston smiled behind his mask and took several steps back. "Let her through, men." he ordered his subordinates with a laugh. A hand spanked her bottom as she passed the Lieutenant. By Avo, she hated that man. _Filthy pig_. One day, she'd have her revenge.

The girl appeared as well as she possibly could. Her long hair, still bundled in small knots, was straightened to its full potential and tied over her shoulder. She wielded a tattered fan that looked as old as her enlightenment-aged dress. To the average observer, she was a common whore. But through her own eyes, she was stunningly gorgeous – dressed to impress her beloved master.

Reaver sat cross-legged in his cell gazing over a newspaper and puffing smoke from a pipe. His violet nightgown and balverine fur slippers were worth more than the sum of Elizabeth's entire apparel. The former lord of industry gazed up at his arriving guests as he pulled the cigar from his lips and graced his tongue with a sip of red wine.

The young woman sat upon a wooden chair on the opposite side of the bars with an excited smile. "Master Rea-"

"Heavens above," Reaver chuckled. "I thought you'd never return!"

"But, Master Reaver, it's only been-"

"Nevermind that." the wealthy prisoner dismissed, placing the newspaper on his lap. "What have you graciously fetched for your master?"

A hopelessly defeated Elizabeth slipped a hand into her corset, unveiling a folded envelope hidden between her breasts. She shakily transferred the sealed document to Reaver. "Only this, sir." she muttered.

"Ah," The man took hold of the parchment with two fingers. "My thanks, darling! My humble thanks! What a marvelously fine and striking servant you are!"

_Fine? Striking? Yes! Yes! I am beautiful!_ "Truly, Master Reaver?" Nero perked up in a flash. "Striking? Thank you! I wore my finest dress and spent over an hour styling my h-"

"What splendid news!" Reaver had torn the envelope's seal and scanned over its written contents with great rapidity. "_His Majesty's_ cousin has returned to Albion! A blessing to the Kingdom!"

"His Majesty's cousin?" Elizabeth inquired.

"The fashionably gorgeous son of Logan – Prince Lawrence, Duke of Westcliff!"

The girl pondered for a moment, leaning her face against one of the bars as she restlessly searched for a reasoned thought. "Logan? The former King of Albion?"

Reaver sighed. "Oh, my sweet, if only you possessed a mind…"

_I do possess a mind! I am smart! Smarter than you think! I should kill you! I should kill you now! But I love you! Why won't you love me? I'd sacrifice my soul for you! Why won't you love me? I'll make you love me! You'll see!_ "I'm sorry, Master. I will focus on becoming smarter. I promise."

"I'd surely prefer it if you were to 'focus' on the task ahead!" Reaver snapped. "We have plans, my love! Wondrous plans!" His hand guided another envelope through the bars and into her corset. A chill rushed through the woman's body as he touched her. She collapsed into utter infatuation.

"To whom…to…" a panting Elizabeth began. "To…whom will…the letter…"

"Bring it to Roger immediately." he ordered, removing his fingers from their pleasurable doings. "It is time we set our strategies in motion!"


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you for your review, Soul-of-Angst! I'm so glad you're enjoying my story. And of course I care what you think! I care about what every single one of my readers thinks! _

_Thank you for reading, everybody! Please leave more comments and reviews!_

**Chapter 3**

**Mourningwood, Kingdom of Albion**

Darkness…and then light.

The resonating voice of Sammy Snow was all that Rudolf could hear. "Got to stay with us, L.C.!" he hollered. "Skorm's tit! Where the hell are those medics?!" Everything was blurred. Arceneaux was being dragged through mud. That much he could tell. Other soldiers surrounded him, bloodied by wounds and dirtied with the swamp's muck.

Darkness…and then light.

"It's alright, Arcie! It's me – Sam! We've got ya, Arcie!" They'd moved to the thicket of the marshes. What in Avo's name was going on?

Darkness…and then light.

"By the gods, break down those damn doors! These walking corpses are on our arses!" Rudolf was now on a makeshift stretcher, his body numb and his thoughts incoherent. It was nightfall. They'd reached a structure of some sort; stone constructions overgrown with vines and wetland foliage. A castle? A fort?

Darkness…and then light.

Lieutenant Colonel Arceneaux blinked several times before his vision was finally calibrated. The blur was gone, and the clearness of his surroundings revealed a surprising revelation – they'd reached Mourningwood Fort. The officer was laid out on a harshly stained mattress which was set near the central foundations of the stronghold. He'd been stripped of his elegant uniform down to his trousers. Thick dressings had been properly wrapped around his upper torso, left shoulder, and right calf. He made an attempt at moving his ten fingers and toes. All were functional, and none had been amputated.

_Thank Avo_, he thought. _But what the devil happened?_

Rudolf swiftly scanned the interior of the fort, which was illuminated by the golden sunlight that pierced through the canopy above. He counted a shockingly small total of ten soldiers. All appeared fatigued, stressed, mournful, and utterly defeated. They held their battered weapons with a wearing strength and had replaced their proud military marches with distraught shuffles.

"What in-" He sat up in astonishment, sending an agonizing flash of pain throughout his entire body. The Lieutenant Colonel let out a deep groan before flopping back onto the mattress with his hands over his patched wounds.

"Sir!" came the elated voice of Captain Snow from the upper walls of Mourningwood Fort. He never called his commander "sir." It sounded worrisome and borderline tragic. This was unusual.

"Captain Snow!" Arceneaux responded, his eyes bolting from one direction to the other in his attempt to find his trusted subordinate.

"Oi!" Snow cried with a grin. He was positioned above the entrance gate. "Look alive, gents! L.C.'s awake!"

The soldiers' heads were lifted as though it was the best news they'd ever received. They unleashed a wave of cheers and hurrahs for the revival of their leader. Snow himself hurried across the walls and descended the crumbling steps towards the Lieutenant Colonel's bed.

Rudolf sat upwards, this time with more caution and care. He supported his weight with his right arm. "What in Avo's sake happened, Sammy?"

The Captain sat himself down upon a small wooden stool beside the mattress. "Well," he responded. "You only got knocked out into the bloody Void when we fell into the river! I-"

"No," Arceneaux interrupted. He was growing lightheaded as his senses began returning to him. A sudden hunger and thirst fell onto his body. It was painful. "That's not what I meant. I was…How long has it been? Tell me everything that's happened since the scuffle on the river! Where is Major Baron? Where are the rest of the men?"

Snow took in a deep breath, his eye shifting as he revisited his recent memories. "Get ready for an earful, sir."

Again, Sammy addressed the Lieutenant Colonel as "sir." Something terrible must have happened.

**Bowerstone Castle**

**Bowerstone, Kingdom of Albion**

When King Logan was ousted by the Hero of Brightwall, he was found innocent of his "treasonous" crimes against the people of Albion. The former regent promised a fervent effort towards aiding his brother in the fight against the Crawler. The promised was more than fulfilled. His labors blessed him with a refurbished image amongst the Albionite populace, and he was able to quietly settle with a duke's title on the shores of an industrialized Westcliff. Isolated from national politics, Logan wed the Millfields-born Lady Antoinette Oxford in a matter of years after the Crawler's destruction.

The marriage, described as "inexpressibly happy," produced a single son and the sole heir to the Duchy of Westcliff – Lawrence.

Like his father, Lawrence possessed Heroic blood, but was not a Hero himself. Regardless, he carried a pride and courage that made him one of the most revered members of Albion's nobility. Lawrence was just a boy when his first cousin, George, was born to the Queen-in-exile. The Duke of Westcliff's household became an essential capital of anti-Reaver sentiment. In adulthood, Lawrence would become one of George's most reliable supporters and commanders of rebel forces. He stormed the gates of Bowerstone alongside the Crown Prince and won back the throne of Albion for his bloodline.

No more than a month had passed after George's crowning before Logan died of terminal illness. By custom, Lawrence succeeded his father as Duke of Westcliff. Unlike his predecessor, he became actively involved in royal politics; so much so that many accused him of aspirations for the crown itself! These were false whisperings, of course. The duke adored his cousin and had placed his life on the line to grant the Crown Prince his rightful place on the throne. In truth, they were the best of friends. But accusations of treason against the state forced His Majesty to distance Lawrence from the affairs of the court.

Instead, the Duke of Westcliff acted as an ambassador to the Kingdom's oversea territories. He was granted de facto governorship over the island of Witchwood and became a major activist for human rights reform in Aurora.

On certain occasions, Lawrence returned to the mainland on sporadic visits to his family. Like the King of Albion, he was not wed…but his reasons for this were different. Nevertheless, his lack of spousal and fatherly limitations made travel easier and continent visitations more frequent.

This was one such visitation. The night skies of Albion had been cast over the city of Bowerstone. The darkness was accompanied by dramatically heavy rains and booming thunder. But the metropolis still bustled as usual. Workers emerged for late shifts, toiling in the freezing storm as though unaffected by the climate whatsoever. Over the passing decades, Bowerstone only continued to develop. More factories and sweatshops were erected, allowing for huge increases in industrial output by the monopolistic overlords of Albion's economy.

But with the growth of industry came the growth of the slums; the growth of the gap between rich and poor. Aye, the nation's wealth tripled…but at the cost of human death and suffering. True, working conditions had improved since the despotic regime of Reaver the Usurper. However, progression of workers' rights still had oceans to cross before reaching appropriate levels of humanity.

An exquisite carriage rushed over the cobblestone streets of Bowerstone Market. Drawn by four bay stallions and directed by a cloaked driver, the vehicle sped into the upper-crest northern districts with haste. The singular passenger inside slept softly in comfortable warmth and privacy. He'd buried his face into the thick fur collar of his coat, his hands encased in the heat of his balverineskin gloves. He was, of course, Lawrence – His Majesty's beloved Duke of Westcliff.

The duke was the spitting image of his father, but he chose to wear a fully grown goatee as a differentiating feature from Logan's famed portraits. Lawrence donned only the finest of clothing - garments of Auroran silk and tailored fabric. He maintained a love and devotion to Albion's fashion trends, which made him an attractive individual that bore the looks of the royal family well.

A bump on the street shocked the Duke of Westcliff from his tranquil slumber. Pushing the window curtains aside, he gazed through the semi-blinding rains at the manors which lined the pathway to Bowerstone Castle. "How far, Johnson?" he inquired with his low-pitched voice slightly raised.

"No more than ten minutes, milord!" the driver replied, snapping the reins.

"My thanks!" Lawrence respected the durability of coach drivers. Through rain, snow, heat, and cold, they pressed on. He would pay the man called Johnson handsomely.

The poverty-stricken citizens of Bowerstone watched the passing carriage in awe. The horses whinnied loudly as they galloped through the sculpted gates at the gardens of the castle. The carriage rolled into the enclosed courtyard, slowing to a halt before the line of elite soldiers waiting to greet His Majesty's cousin.

A uniformed sergeant offered the duke an umbrella as the driver opened the vehicle's door. Lawrence stepped out with refinement and proper mannerisms. He nodded in thanks to the soldier and slipped a heavy sack of coins into Johnson's hand. The elite guards saluted the visiting royal as he was guided up the steps leading to the castle's main entrance.

King George stood proudly alongside the Dowager Queen and Antoinette, the Dowager Duchess of Westcliff and Lawrence's mother, in the castle entry hall before the staircase. His Majesty sported a flashy military uniform and a violet cape which was symbolic of his regality.

The Duke of Westcliff tapped his walking stick against the floor upon entrance. With a wide smile, he removed his feathered cap and greeted the King of Albion with a respectful bow. "Hello, Your Majesty!" he chuckled.

George clapped with a grin, approaching the duke without hesitation. "Welcome home, cousin!" he remarked, pulling Lawrence to his feet and wrapping his arms around the man. "It's been too long!"

"Indeed, it has!" The Duke then bowed to the Dowager Queen, reverently kissing her hand before addressing her as "my beloved Aunt Laylah."

"What a handsome man you've become, nephew!" said Laylah. "The mirror image of my brother-in-law! Avo rest his soul…"

The Dowager Duchess of Westcliff was the last to greet the noble guest. Tears streamed down her old, wrinkled cheeks as they did with Lawrence's every visit. "My son!" she cried in joy. "My sweet boy!" And she showered the laughing duke with motherly kisses. Even in her youth, Antoinette was not the world's most "stunning" woman…but she was the type whom gained attractiveness based on her pure heart alone.

"We have much to speak of, Lawrence." the king interrupted. "I need your help."


	4. Chapter 4

_Again, thank you kindly for the review! Your compliments are beyond kind, and I hope you continue following my story! Here's another chapter, which is somewhat short but essential to the motion of the plot. Please, everyone, leave comments and reviews! I love hearing what my readers think! :) _

**Chapter 4**

**Mourningwood Fort**

**Mourningwood, Kingdom of Albion**

"The beetles caused more chaos than anythin' else." Sammy explained to Rudolf as he lapped up a small tin bowl of powdered grain – the fort's only remaining supply of food. "Killed some. Definitely killed some. But they scattered our boys all over the creek. The swarms cleared after a bit, but the battalion was cut in half by the skirmish. Half the men were spread throughout the swamp on the other side of the river. A good majority of our supplies were layin' soiled and useless at the bottom of the sludge."

The Lieutenant Colonel was listening faithfully without breaking his focus. "What of Major Baron?" he asked.

"Barry and I stuck together and did our best to reform the battalion. Luckily, we were able to pull you out of the muck before the swamp bugs scavenged the water's banks. You were slipping in and out of consciousness; banged your head up pretty badly. We had medics, but their equipment was…not what I'd call 'remarkably plentiful.' They disinfected your bites and flesh wounds, but they were short on bandages." The Captain let out a slight chuckle. "You refused to stop bleedin', you bloody arse!"

"_What of Major Baron?_" Rudolf inquired again, this time with a slight snap of aggression. At the moment, he was in no mood for Captain Snow's playful comments.

Sammy closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. It was an act of regretful defeat. "We'd gathered about two hundred men. The rest were…well, I don't know what happened to them. They could still be out there for all I know. The drummers tried to signal more, but…nobody came. Our efforts only served to waste valuable time. We tried pressing on to the fort before sundown, but…but, well…"

It was at this moment that Arceneaux realized the Captain was crying. Snow, the man of everlasting joy and charisma, had dropped his tin bowl to the dirt. A tear leaked from his single eye, gently running over his skin until it fell to the earth from the tip of his nose. Samuel Snow did not cry. It was not in his nature. Perhaps his nature had been broken.

"Sammy-"

"They attacked us in the brush of the marshes." Snow interrupted, shifting his glassy gaze to Rudolf's pupils.

The Lieutenant Colonel frowned in confusion. "Who did?"

"The Hollow Men. It was dusk. The rotten shit-head corpses started rising from the ground like demons from hell. We…We did not even have time to react, sir! I swear to you, Lieutenant Colonel, it was slaughter! Those filthy, arse-licking bastards ripped us apart! I can still hear the screams! I can still hear the agony! I can still hear the blood-thirsty roars of the undead as they cut into the flesh of our comrades! And we fought them, sir! We fought them hard! But they kept coming! Wave, after wave, after wave! And they split our ranks in fourths!"

Arceneaux lowered his stare in shame, for he had failed his men. "I should have been there." he muttered. "I should have been there."

The Captain's head shook in utter disagreement. "No man on earth should have been there." the soldier stated. "I've seen the sickest battles the world has to offer. But this was no battle. This was massacre." He paused. "Barry took command of the opposite flank. We lost contact completely – separated by hordes of walking corpses. I had no other choice but to retreat with what men I had left. We could hear the gunfire of Baron's boys as we ran. It was our obligation to keep you alive, sir. We were so close…so _fucking_ close…to the walls of the fort. If only Barry had stuck with…if…"

"Are Baron and his men alive?" Arceneaux asked swiftly, his eyes glistening with a tiny glimmer of hope. "Are you aware of their status at all, Captain?"

"They could be alive." Snow replied somberly. "But it is beyond unlikely. Hell, I only had under forty men left by the time we reached the fort's gates…and we had chosen to run! Barry and his gents stayed fighting like true soldiers – like true Fortiores! We should have done the same. We should have died with them. But you were alive, sir. We could not sacrifice your life. So we endured the savage assaults by the Hollow Men as we struggled to shatter the barriers of the fort. Tens had been butchered by the time we gained access. Our defensive positions bought us some time…and we lasted until sunrise. That's when the waves stopped. Sunrise. Only fifteen men remained. Thankfully, you're alive. As far as I'm concerned, that's one hell of a victory."

They had entered Mourningwood with six hundred men. Now, only fifteen were left. How in Avo's name could this have happened? The Fortiores – His Majesty's elite of the noble Old Guard – were decimated in a matter of 24 hours. They were sons, husbands, brothers…fathers. They deserved to live on forever. Now, they lay rotting in the pits of the murky swamps. Arceneaux could not help but imagine them becoming Hollow Men themselves. It was a tragic and ironic thought.

The Lieutenant Colonel was given a cane to assist in walking. He stood with an excruciating groan as he tossed his officer's coat over his shoulders. "Captain," he said, placing his hand on Snow's shoulder.

Sammy looked upwards towards his commander. "Yes, Lieutenant Colonel?"

"You did a hell of a fine job. I'll send a letter to the capital requesting your promotion in rank. You'll be reassigned to someplace safer and away from this cursed swamp. A man of your strength deserves-"

"I'd rather die a thousand deaths than serve under any man other than you." Snow countered, firmly placing his hand over Rudolf's. He slipped a proud grin. "We'll fight these bell end-sucking Hollow Men to the end!"

For Rudolf, it was an honor to have such a fine soldier under his command. Sammy had done the impossible. He had survived and saved as many comrades as he could, and he did so out of a sense of duty. The Lieutenant Colonel smiled. "Sounds like a bloody marvelous plan!" He turned to observe the fort's fortifications. "Sturdy wooden and stone barricades. That'll hold 'em off for a while. What about supplies?"

"A bit short on ammo." Sammy replied, standing from his chair. "We've got some grain for food. It won't last us long, but that ain't no problem. Swamp's full of food to scavenge. If we're reduced to eating bugs, then by Avo's fat belly, we'll eat the piss out of those bugs!"

"And water?"

"Plenty of water. That's one of the very few things we were able to salvage from the beetle attack at the creek."

Arceneaux nodded in relief. It was the first instance of good news he'd heard all day. "How many hours until sundown?"

"About six, Arcie." Snow informed his commander.

The Lieutenant Colonel looked to the towering canopy. "Well then…it's time we get to work."

**Bowerstone Castle**

**Bowerstone, Kingdom of Albion**

"Hold on, hold on, hold on!" the Duke of Westcliff exclaimed. Lawrence and George had confined themselves in the castle's war room with General Timmins. There, His Majesty explained to the Duke the plan of expedition to the Northern Wastes for oil. "Is this a joke?"

The King of Albion did not hesitate in his response. "Unfortunately, it is not."

Lawrence sarcastically snickered at the entire proposal itself. "You're investing one million gold pieces – _**one million**_ gold pieces – into an expedition for Drake Industries?"

"Yes." His Majesty replied with a firm stance and his head raised high as a symbol of dominance. "And I would like you to lead this expedition, cousin."

The Duke of Westcliff fell back into his chair with a blank gaze. "George…by Avo…I don't even…" He lightly tapped his fist against his forehead out of frustration. "First of all, I haven't seen any combat whatsoever since the Second Revolution. My arse has been sitting on an official's chair for years."

"I am aware of this."

"Second of all…you are investing one million gold pieces – _**a sixth of our nation's economy**_ – into a venture thought out by Isaac Drake. George, are you forgetting last year's oil spill in the South Islands? That was Drake's barge. He is the main cause behind our oil shortage! And you are trusting him with an absolutely _**massive**_ investment towards an abandoned wasteland of a tundra that hasn't been touched in centuries! Are you out of your mind?!"

George folded his hands and shook his head, letting out a long, self-soothing breath of air to ease his boiling anger. "This, my cousin, is our only choice. I will not invest in alternative energy. That is even more of a gamble. Oil works. That is fact. Drake presented solid proof of the north's plentiful oil supply. This is the most rational position I could take!"

Lawrence leaned back into his chair and cleared his throat. "_Your Majesty_, with all due respect, are you a bloody chump? Is there a brain inside that Heroic skull?"

The King slammed his palms down upon the table in rage. "You will not speak to me in such an impertinent manner!" he hissed. "You may be my flesh and blood, but I am still your king! You will respect and obey my every command!"

"I put you on that motherfucking throne!" Lawrence quickly snapped, leaning forward towards the King of Albion without a single flicker of fear.

"You do not swear at me!"

"And you do not treat me as a dog!" The Duke of Westcliff's voice had deepened in fury. He rose to his feet with clenched fists. "I love you dearly as a friend and as a relative, but you are jeopardizing all that we have with this venture! I will not-"

"ENOUGH!" boomed General Timmins, smashing his cane against a chair. Timmins was ancient in terms of the average human lifespan, but he remained as skilled a military commander as he was in his youth. The old man hobbled towards the map of Albion as the Duke and King obediently returned to their seats. "Lawrence, this is the choice His Majesty has made! We need you! We need a trusted soul on this voyage! If you do not peacefully agree to command the mission, we will force you to do so with every ounce of aggression we can muster! This is a matter of state! Do you understand?"

It took a moment, but Lawrence eventually signaled his capitulation with a nod. "Very well." he muttered. "I will do so out of love for my cousin and my country."

The King nodded. "Thank you, Lawrence." he said with a breath of relief.

"Now," Timmins turned his attention to George. "I was hesitant to deliver this news, Your Majesty, but…I will not be able to gather the expedition force by the end of the week."

George frowned. "And why not?" he barked.

"It takes more than a simple week to form the appropriate force!" the military officer responded. "We still have a need for the required supplies and ammunition! Not to mention the fact that we need to take time to select the best of the best to secure the drilling regions! I will not throw meager cadets into the frozen wilderness to die!"

It disappointed the King that he had to go back on his word. He'd made Isaac Drake a promise, and it was a promise that he was supposedly being forced to break. "How long will you need?"

"A month," Timmins replied. "At least."

"A month?!" His Majesty boomed. "General, we need the oil _**now**_!"

"Well, let me assure you that if we send our men to the Wastes at the end of the week, all we will receive in return is dead bodies! You must trust me, Your Majesty. Please."

George placed his hands over his face. "Very well." he growled. "I'll telegraph Drake immediately."

"I will need a subordinate officer." Lawrence stated. "I cannot command the force alone. Do you have anyone in mind, General Timmins?"

The General thought for several minutes. It was an important mission that only the best could handle. It did not take long for him to make a conclusion. He looked towards the Duke of Westcliff with a grin. "I have just the man." he said. "Lieutenant Colonel Rudolf Arceneaux, head of the King's Fortiores."


End file.
